


A Not So Perfect Match

by sleepygrimm



Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Regency, Arranged Marriage, Bucky Barnes & Steve Rogers Friendship, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Hurt Wanda Maximoff, Matchmaker Wanda Maximoff, Matchmaking, Natasha Romanov Feels, Regency Romance, Romance, Romantic Fluff, Steve Rogers Feels, Wanda Maximoff & Natasha Romanov Friendship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-15 22:35:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28571625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepygrimm/pseuds/sleepygrimm
Summary: An English Marquis and Soldier matched to a Russian beauty with an unusual kept secret. A matchmaking younger sister. Chaotic as it may, but nonetheless perfect.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Natasha Romanov
Comments: 5
Kudos: 62





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mustang_Girl16](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mustang_Girl16/gifts).



> After transforming into a couch potato due to a said show named Bridgerton. My mind had gone to all places and pictured my favorite pair. I went against the grain and came up with a lot of What if's. My ideas are not always good. So again, bear with me on this one? All mistakes are mine. Comments are welcome. 
> 
> A gift to Mustang_Girl16 for being so sweet, brave, and insightful in all things. I swear sometimes you are an old soul trapped in a young woman's body. I'm proud to have met and known you all these years. Always stay strong.

PROLOGUE

At the age of thirteen, Steven Grant Rogers, the not-quite-yet Marquis of Winchester, was run over by James Buchanan Barnes, the not-quite-yet Earl of Cardigan, as the former fled from a group of miscreants who sought to give him another bloody nose—something which they considered their own brand of entertainment. While James ‘Bucky’ could by no means be called a troubled child, he had, however, taken an enormous amount of pleasure in beating Steve’s bullies to a pulp. That, of course, resulted in the pair becoming best of friends and quite simply inseparable. As time passed, theirs was a relationship that transcended the bond friendship to enter that of brotherhood.

and having been both raised by uncompromising fathers in the military service, they were tutored from a young age to value family above all. But as with all things, their relationship was not without its own trials. The most significant of which did not occur until years later. And like many other things, the heart of this trial would revolve around love and war.

“I would like to ask for your blessing, Steve. I’m asking for Wanda's hand in marriage!” Bucky exclaimed as they came to a halt on top of a hill on the Earl of Cardigan’s country estate. “I believe she is the one.”

The smile on Steve’s face matched that of his friend’s. “My blessing, huh? Always thought of you as a rake. No matter how many times I’ve warned you that my little sister is off-limits, you punk!”

Bucky threw his head back and laughed.

“So, does my sister reciprocate your feelings?” Steve asked.

“I believe so.” Bucky grinned.

“Never would have suspected you were one for fanciful notions, let alone the belief in ‘one true love.’”

“Neither did I, but the devil took me, when my eyes first fell upon her bewitching beauty at eighteen, the world at my feet shifted.”

Steve yanked on the reigns to angle his horse for a better view of the estate.

“She did grow up to be quite the woman for you to fall so effortlessly in love. Am I to presume wedding preparations are in place?”

Bucky didn’t answer the question and instead replied, “I received a letter today. The war is moving farther east, and soldiers are dying.”

Steve let loose a string of curses. “You are considering enlisting.”

“And if I were?”

“Don’t be a tart, Buck. You know as well your father will never allow it.”

“He will threaten to cut me off,” his friend agreed. “But we all know it’s a bluff. I’m his only heir.”

Steve’s stomach clenched in fierce protest at what his friend’s words hinted at. “Forget about the war. Marry my sister, have little Bucky and Wanda babies and leave the fighting to Wellington.”

His friend looked away.

His heart sank. “You already signed up, haven’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Damn it, Buck!” Steve snapped; he ran an exasperated hand through his blonde hair. Chester, his dark thoroughbred, started to stomp his hooves, felt his owner’s agitation. Steve soothed the beast with calm words, and visibly relaxed its stiff posture.

“After a moment he turned and shot his friend a glare. “If we die, I will bloody kill you again.”

“We?” Bucky asked.

“Yes, we. Someone needs to make certain you don’t get slaughtered.” Steve smirked.

While Steve would happily throw himself under the hooves for his friend, that did not mean he had to be happy about it.

“I would never ask you to enlist because of me,” Bucky murmured, his expression now devoid of any emotion.

“I am aware, you think Wanda would forgive me if I don't save your sorry arse,” Steve muttered. “Are you certain this is what you want? To risk your life on the battlefield?”

Bucky nodded, but something moved across his face—a flash of emotion so deep and so raw that it startled him. It disappeared in the blink of an eye before Steve could identify it.

He gave his friend a hard look, tried to decipher where this sudden need to conquer came from, but his friend gave nothing else away. Nothing gave Steve a clue as to the reason for his sudden interest in the war.

With a hard nudge, he spurred his horse forward, shouting over his shoulder, “So be it.”

And with that, he followed James Buchanan Barnes into war.

\-------------------------------------------

“Do not tell me who you will or will not marry after everything I’ve done for you! You’d be living in a hut if not for me.”

Natasha had faced Clinton Francis Barton Earl of Lindsey in front of his retainers, her voice echoed in the silence of the banqueting hall.

“I am grateful that you have given me a home, Clint, but I will not marry a man who is old enough to be my grandfather, and I will not watch you destroy yourself, either.” She cried.

Clint went off to war months ahead. It was at his return Natasha noticed the change of his half-brother. She prayed that loneliness and pain would not consume him.

He, on the other hand, wished that he had not returned. The girl he planned to marry; Laura contracted a fever that complicated her pregnancy while he was off to war.

Pain and loss were something Natasha understood too well. Laura died as she gave birth, A little baby girl. Since there was no marriage, Laura’s parents whisked the child away to raise on their own.

He searched for months but came back with a broken heart and no daughter to love.

He was dead drunk all day long, and he berated everyone in sight. He was slowly losing all his lands, from gambling and foolish investments. He had been exposed to the darker side of life.

She flinched when he slapped her, the blow knocked her backward into a chair.

“Go to your bloody room!”

“Clint, let me help you. Please do not do this.”

“Go, damn you. Do not speak to me when all I ask is your obedience, a simple favor of respect,” he shouted.

She rose briskly and ran with an ache in her heart.


	2. Chapter 2

Natasha Romanoff prayed that the rumors of the Marquis of Winchester’s reputation had not been exaggerated; only if the man could overlook the life she had led.

There was a full moon the night she finally reached Winchester Hall. Together with her loyal butler, they disembarked on the carriage and decided to walk a small distance towards the estate. She stopped at the edge of the woods and wondered whether this was a sign that she should turn back. From what she had learned, the English lord who owned this estate was not known for welcoming visitors, except for the London ladies who had shared his bed in the past. Apparently, the marquees had run a bit wild in his younger years, but the war had tamed him somewhat, and whatever questionable behaviors he now indulged were done so in secret.

She liked the look of his estate, an elegant three-story, H-shaped mansion of sandstone set in its own parkland. The foundations of the ancestral manor had been laid in Elizabethan times of stone quarried from the nearby moor in the deepest roots of which his family lived.

All this helpful information about Lord Steven Grant Rogers had been imparted to Natasha less than an hour ago over a pint of inferior ale in a local inn by a less reliable source, the village barmaid.

“He’s kind to his sister, though,” the woman had been forced to admit. “Give the devil his due—mercy, my dear, you’re not hoping to ask charity?” she had asked in alarm. “If it’s work you want, I say go elsewhere. Better to work in a textile factory than to fall prey to his charms.” 

She had straightened her slender shoulders. “I am a relative, not a charity case.” Actually, it was through his lordship’s brother-in-law that she claimed a fragile thread of kinship.

Natasha frowned as she recalled how the barmaid had scoffed at her claim of blood relationship to the house. _What was so amusing about herself?_ she wanted to know. True, she had not made a proper toilette in several days, and her cloak was snagged with grass burrs. And while the gown beneath might not be the height of style, not anything a young lady might admire in good society, still it was of quality wool and decently tailored.

“Sir James Buchanan Barnes is a distant cousin,” she had said in a dignified voice.

“Sir James?” There had been an awful pause during which the woman’s amusement evolved into an air of pitying astonishment. “But he’s been dead for almost four years, dear. Didn’t anyone tell you? Sir James was killed in battle.”

The floor had seemed to dissolve beneath Natasha’s feet. She could not have come all this way for anything; all her hopes on the generosity of a cousin who had died without her ever knowing.

“His wife is still alive, though,” the barmaid had added gently, distressed by the young woman’s sudden pallor. “That’s Lady Barnes, the sister I told you about. She has a soft heart, that one, which makes it all the stranger that the marquis is such a difficult man.”

Well, it was too late for her to return to Ireland now. She had shamed her half-brother when she ran out on the party that celebrated her own engagement to a widowed laird in his sixties who had five grandchildren. She had also run out of funds and had no means to make the journey back. Nor going back to Russia, her mother’s roots. Her future had hinged on the casual invitation of her late cousin, who had said, “If you should ever need anything, come to Devon.”

She glanced at the tall, dark, and raw-boned old gentleman that stood beside her, his face as seasoned as a gladiator in a battle field. “What do you think?”

“I had a feeling that they’ve been expecting us.” Nicholas suspected.

Nicholas fury was the family butler, had served the House of Barton and Romanoff for almost four decades. always dressed like a gentleman. He shared the same intellect with white men for he was tutored and treated as an equal in their household. Practically, raised Natasha and Clint himself.

“How could they know we had arrived when they are probably unaware that I even exist?” she asked.

“Someone could have warned them,” he said mysteriously. “There are those who saw us leave the castle and might remember your connection to your cousin.”

“We cannot cower here in the bushes all night, Nick.”

“We cannot walk into a trap, either,” he said firmly, refusing to budge.

“I am not afraid of any Lord; I expect he isn’t nearly as bad as that barmaid exaggerated. At any rate, I am obliged now to introduce myself.”

His old face softened. “Of course, you were always the brave one, even from the day you were born, howling your wee heart out, together with that fiery bit of hair, with the indignity of it all.

Natasha paused. Somehow, it reminded of the days, of her preadolescent years, tumbled out of a tree into a dead bramble bush and had her rough-handed butler plucked splinters from her bum, did not gave her the composure she needed to face the notorious Marquis of Winchester.

“Nick, I would prefer simply to knock at the door and introduce myself.”

“Not until I’m sure there is no trap about to spring. May I remind you of why we brought that blasted dog in the first place. William the great lured the dogs away.”

Natasha glanced uneasily around the darkened estate. William the great was the castle deerhound and her companion on cold lonely nights since she had found him limping on the moor years ago. He was a tough old dog but perhaps not a match against the well-trained mastiffs that patrolled the marquis' grounds for intruders.

“See,” Nicholas said in a low voice, “someone is watching from the house. I tell you, I feel it in these weary old bones. My blood is all a-tingle with anxiety.”

“Not to mention several pints of ale,” she said wryly. “Besides, it seemed they just had a party of some sort, and who would have written to warn him we were coming?”

“Your stubborn half-brother Clinton, perhaps. The one whose castle you ran away from. The one who had arranged your marriage to one ancient laird who is probably having a heart seizure at the altar as we speak.”

She bit her lip. “So? but would Clint be angry enough to have me shot on sight?” she raised one eyebrow.

“The English do things in unusual ways, miss. Mark my words. We’re in the hostile territory now.”

A flicker of light from the house interrupted their whispered conversation. She looked up at the long gallery windows of the ivy-draped manor. A man in elegant evening attire had paused to look outside, candlelight emphasized his powerful frame. She stared up at him in wonder, at his fine muscular figure. Surely his silhouette was deceiving, as exaggerated as the talk of him. He would not appear so arresting on closer inspection.

Natasha had not seen him, her cousin James had been known to sing praises for the man. Her coming to Devon was supposed to be a new start. Despite the gossip that fascinates every lip in England, rumored to be a notorious rake and war hero. She wanted to take residence in Devon and postponed the husband hunt her brother had planned. He may have succeeded to introduce her into society and find a suitable husband. She would marry by all means of course, but on her own terms. Her husband should possessed mild mannerism and pose no danger to her heart, and not be bothered to tell her what to do or how to do it. An uncomplicated life. By good fortune, she would marry for love and not for companionship.

She brushed a red curl from her face, squinted in order to see better. “That must be Lady Barnes’ brother, the marquis.”

“How can you tell?”

“It is the man I saw in the photographs.” Besides, she added silently, he certainly looked like a man who had seen the more interesting side of life.

“Are you sure? Well, your vision I will not argue with. Here.” He placed a heavy pistol in her hand. The tips of her fingers went numb with cold fear.

“What is this for?” she whispered in alarm. “I’ve come here to ask his assistance, not to murder him.”

He’s an Englishman, miss. They’re unpredictable.”

“Be that as it may, I am not going to kill the man.”

Natasha glanced up again at the house, disappointed to see that the intriguing male figure had disappeared. She had been fascinated by her glimpse into the world she imagined he inhabited, of duels fought at dawn and glittering ballrooms, of late-night parties and self-indulgent pursuits. It was certainly a contrast to the inelegant life she had led, being shuffled from boarding schools back to the castle again.

“Oh,” she said softly. “He’s gone. I believed he sensed we were here.”

“See, ‘that is why I’m worried. I swear to you; he’s watching’ for someone. Now, I’m heading’ around the house to the stables. When I give the signal—”

He wheeled spryly toward the path as the baying of dogs resounded in the oak woods that surrounded the estate. Sometimes Natasha thought that he lived for blood-stirring moments such as this. She, on the other hand, would be very happy to settle down to a more sedate existence.

As she waited for him to return, she closed her eyes, an unspoken plea formed in her heart. _Please, please, just for once, let me find a place to belong._

_\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

The tallest man in the room threw down his book as an unearthly howl rose from the woods that encircled his estate. His lean face registered more annoyance than alarm at the commotion.

“What poor creature have those damn dogs cornered now?” he wondered aloud, lounging back in his chair.

“Not one of our guests on the way home, I hope,” the man beside him said.

Tall, dark-haired, chocolate skin and light-hearted, he was the opposite in temperament and appearance of his host, Steven Grant Rogers Marquis of Winchester of last year when his father had passed away after a brief illness in India. Having also recently inherited, Sam Wilson, the Duke of Flintshire, an elusive favorite before among the marriage-minded mamas and debutante daughters, which a member of this private house party sought to escape.

The man he had addressed only grinned boyishly at the complaint and rose to stare out into the night. A cluster of pedunculated oaks enclosed the well-tended grounds, gave way to an overgrown tangle of woods. Beyond the borders of his estate stretched the moor, a misty realm pitted with tors and megalithic boulders.

“The dogs have stopped their infernal barking,” Steve said in relief. “With luck, it was only a badger and not some carriage they were chasing.”

“I hope the badger wasn’t hurt,” a woman said from the corner.

Steve glanced down with affection at the brunette that sat below him on a chaise, his younger sister Wanda, who seemed impossibly fragile in her midnight blue dress of watered silk. The cashmere shawls he had given her for Christmas did not conceal the prominent bones of her collarbone any better than her skillful application of powder hid the hollows of bereavement below her cheekbones. His beloved sibling wasting away to a wraith before his eyes.

“Did you eat anything for supper, Wanda?” he asked quietly.

“My goodness, yes.”

“Two bites of pudding,” Sam said disapprovingly from the card table. “Two tiny bites that would not have nourished a fly.”

I ate the entire bowl,” Wanda protested.

She lied. She glanced away to avoid Steve’s perceptive gaze, and he felt a familiar surge of panic and guilt. Almost four years ago, he had watched her husband die on the battlefield, and now he feared he was losing her, too.

Wanda tugged on the cuff of his white cambric shirt. “Do you really think it was just a badger?”

He looked up again at the window. There had been a rash of housebreakings recently among the small circle of wealthy aristocrats who comprised the upper crust.

The crimes had been executed and Steve suspected at first that a gang of well-heeled youths was taking revenge on their indulgent families. He and Sam had even laughed at their harmless mischief until a footman at Sam’s ducal estate had been brutally beaten and left for dead.

“Our house is the next logical one to be broken into,” Wanda said worriedly.

“It’s been three weeks now,” he said, using a casual voice to calm her. “Duke got off a good shot at one of them, and his wife, The Duchess, Maria pitched a chamber pot on their heads as they escaped down the ladder.”

Wanda gave a faint shudder. “Poor Maria, She says she is never going back to that house, and who can blame her? You mustn’t return there, either. Steve and I absolutely forbid it.”

“Wanda.” Steve knelt beside his sister, his blue eyes gentle. “We’ve never been able to get rid of Sam, have we? He’s like a piece of furniture, a portrait on the wall. Furthermore, the mastiffs are patrolling the grounds at this very moment, and would I let anything happen to you?”

Wanda pressed her forefinger against the hard contour of his chin. “And who is going to protect you, my brother, who believes himself invincible?”

He smiled, thinking that her eyes looked like huge bruises on her too-thin face. Ever since the day he had returned from Albuera to tell her that James, her husband, and Steve’s closest friend, was not coming home, she had begun to vanish on him, disappeared by subtle degrees. She pretended to eat to please him. She could not sleep. And he had not even revealed the horrible truth of how James had died, not the swift storybook death of a hero than she believed. Oh, no. Not for nothing had their regiment been called the Howling Commandos.

“I am perfectly capable of protecting myself,” he said in an amused voice. “And I am not going to expire for some time yet.”

“We’re all going to die sooner or later,” Sam remarked cheerfully. He hoisted himself out of his chair, brushing biscuit crumbs from his waistcoat. “With God’s grace, I shall not do so on the way home. Good night, all.”

“Good night, Sam, Say hello to Maria for me,” Wanda said and rose to kiss his whiskery cheek.

“Shall I see you in London this year, Steve?” he asked over Wanda’s shoulder.

“London,” Wanda said, “is losing its appeal by the day, and I am entirely too bad at remembering all the rules. Society doesn’t like that.”

“Society likes Steve well enough,” Sam said in defense of his friend he adored. “At least, the debutantes seemed to, although not enough to bring one home as a bride, I’m afraid, he seemed destined for bachelorhood.”

“I hope,” Wanda said, shaking her head, “that Steve is not still in love with that awful Sharon Carter.”

Sam rubbed his face to hide a smile. Sharon Carter was the local heiress to whom Steve had been unofficially betrothed since childhood. Everyone knew Steve could have done better in his choice of a bride, but he’d never seemed inclined to look. Sharon knew him in all his moods and did not appear to be the type of woman who, as a wife, would make excessive demands.

Sam pulled a straight face, winked at Wanda. “I know for a fact that Steve’s feelings for her are dead. Burned to a crisp.” He glanced at his friend, his wicked grin crept back. 

Wanda hesitated before she indulged in an uncharacteristic moment of spite. “The Annoying Carter, so different from her Aunt Peg.”

“Excuse me.” Steve’s handsome face revealed no emotion whatsoever, plucked the brandy decanter from Sam’s hands before his friend could pour another drink. “It is past midnight, time for all badly behaved dukes to be in bed, and my personal life is not open to discussion.”

“It still grieves him to talk of her,” Wanda said and gave her brother a sympathetic look.

“He’s—”

The sharp sound of a pistol outside the house brought an abrupt end to the conversation. Wanda pulled away from the chaise, her shawl fluttered to the carpet. Sam rushed up to the window behind Steve and pushed her out of the way, shielded her with their bodies.

“Now, that,” Steve said quietly, “is a very talented badger indeed.”

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Natasha never envisioned to make her social debut in England looking like a guttersnipe. But then nothing in her life had ever followed a proper path. She was a come by a chance child. Her noble father had died without ever acknowledging her, she had inherited her mother’s gift, a seer that made her more of an outcast. Foretelling the future or healing wasn’t a talent a young woman could brag and attract a beau. in fact, it frightened them all the more.

She settled down in the shrubbery and fumbled for her small leather suitcase as its contents were spilled in the dirt. She recoiled at her reflection when she found her miniature mirror.

“You, Natasha Romanoff,” she informed herself in the mirror “ is an anomaly of nature, and you look like hell.”

She watched Nicholas dart across the lawn, in his black waistcoat. She knew it stung his pride to bring her to England. He resented anything from the people who had robbed his family of dignity. but he himself admitted; “Your mother is gone. Your half-brother is drinking himself to death and liable to hurt you in his bad spells. They will take care of you here, I’m too old to serve you much longer.”

Suddenly, a lanky young man appeared on the front lawn with a musket. _Had Nicholas been held hostage by English aristocrats?_ She wondered in horror. As the shrubbery parted, she looked up into a musket barrel.

“Please do not shoot me,” she said in her calmest voice. “I know my appearance, is rather unexpected, but I am Sir James Buchanan Barnes long lost distant cousin from Russia but raised in Ireland. We had planned to go to his estate but learned of his passing, and that I could find her ladyship here.”

Natasha fired her pistol in the air to summon Nicholas. About two minutes later, he pushed through the bushes and frowned at her. “For heaven’s sake, put down that weapon,” he said in an undertone. “This young man has come up to help me bring your things.”

She frowned at Nicholas. “You said you would give me a signal.”

“I did! You were off to another world, no doubt.”

Natasha rose from her feet, and whispered, “What did you tell them about me?”

Nicholas positioned himself in front of her like a true bodyguard. “Not everything. Just enough to ease their doubts of you.” his voice low in her ear.

“I’m afraid Clint will trace us here, if he hasn’t already I could swear we are being followed.”

“Perhaps.”

“I do not wish to deceive these new relations.”

“Just leave everything to me, miss. I got you here safe and sound, did I not?”

“That remains to be seen,” she stared past him.

Her attention had been diverted to the blonde-haired man in an evening dress who strode with authority across the lawn. There was arrogance in the set of broad shoulders, even though she could not see yet his face, she imagined masculine beauty. A marquis who lived to defend and crushed anyone who trespassed in his land. Her heart pounded in her ears, drummed out all other noise. He arched a mocking brow, as eyes the color of clear blue sky burned into her.

“What the devil has happened here?” he demanded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Marquees, Marquis I have never been more confused in my life. Lol. comments are welcome.x


	3. Chapter 3

“Well,” Steve said, he circled the silent group with his hands clasped behind his back. “Have we all been struck dumb by lightning? Is anyone going to answer me?”

No one spoke.

Natasha shivered in reaction to the imperious depth of his voice, which he had raised for effect. It was restrained and wonderful, low-pitched and full of power, like thunder breaking above the moor. Even Nicholas seemed to stand in awe.

He was tall enough that she had to step back to examine his face, and even then she could not decide exactly what lay beneath the composition of shadows and chiseled angles. Perhaps she was better off not knowing. His eyes were blue as the skies; the only hint of softness in his features was his wide, sensual mouth, and even that was overpowered by the strong symmetry of his bone structure.

Natasha studied Nicholas from the corner of her eye, but he, too, seemed to have turned to stone. “It was I,” she said at last, her voice insubstantial in the silence. “I shot into the air to summon my butler.”

“You—and who are you?” He turned on his heel to regard her.

The lanky young foot man hurriedly said, “It was all a misunderstanding, my lord. No harm done.”

“ Misunderstanding?” The owner of the impressive voice glanced at Natasha, his 

tone registered a frank suspicion. “I thought you had caught the housebreakers. “Did I or did I not hear a shot?”

For a moment she felt tempted to throw herself at his mercy and tell him the truth. But there was not a trace of understanding that she could discern in his unyielding blue eyes, and she was spared the humiliation of such a melodramatic gesture by Nicholas, who had finally gathered his wits.

“Good evening my lord. We have come to see Lady Barnes?”

Steve stared at her until colour mounted on her cheeks. Her hair was fiery red, abundantly soft and curly, a perfect foil for those soft green eyes and finely drawn features. She smelled faintly of—it was a nice smell, actually—herbs and flowers and earthy things. Her clothes certainly were not impressive—a blue woolen dress beneath some sort of purple-gray plaid that women probably wore in the north. He might have labeled her an attractive female had she not gazed back at him with that challenging stare that brought out a rather beastly impulse in him to rattle her composure.

Steve blinked in amazement. “Are you referring to my sister?”

“Yes, my lord. Lady Barnes, that’s who we’ve come to see.”

“Whom,” Natasha whispered, nudging him in the side.

Nicholas looked blank. “What?”

“Whom we’ve come to see.”

“Mercy,” he said with a shrug of impatience. “Does it matter?”

The marquis snorted. “I’m not taking either of you anywhere near her ladyship. Besides, you’ve come too late. The gypsies were here last summer with their lurid claims that they could contact her ladyship’s late husband.”

Natasha ground her teeth, tempted to inform him that she had never had dealings with the netherworld, and she was not a gypsy, either. But he didn't look as though he would listen; he was more concerned with protecting his sister, which only made her think of her own miserable half-brother Clint, who did not give a fig anymore whether anyone lived or died, including himself, and how it was because of him that she was there, standing before a man who made her feel entirely unwelcome.

“Let’s go Nick,” she said, lifting her leather trunk with a weary sigh. “It was a bad idea to come without writing first.”

The old Nicholas looked at her in bewilderment. “We can not go. We’ve nowhere to go.” He glanced up into the marquis’ forbidding face. “You can not turn her away.”

“Of course I can,” Steve said without emotion, and then he glanced at the three servants who witnessed this unexpected drama. Or, rather, he glanced at two of them; Peter, the young footman, was halfway to the house, presumably to fetch reinforcements for this minor dilemma. 

“In that case,” Natasha said hesitantly, “you should give this to Lady Barnes. It belonged to her husband. He said it would bring me luck. It hasn’t.”

Steve stood in silence as she removed a brown silk pouch from her cloak. Inside the bag was a heavy gold ring twisted into a knot.

“Take it, and tell her that I’m sorry he died. He was kind to me. I wish I’d spoken to him before he left.”

He raised his gaze to hers, unprepared for the impact of those intelligent green eyes in a face that was more piquant than pretty. “Where did you get this?” he demanded, took it from her hand.

“James gave it to me as a keepsake. He was going off to war.”

“Bucky?” He stepped toward her, forcing Nicholas off to the side. “I was not aware that he had any connection with the gypsies.”

She drew a breath. “And I wasn’t aware he had such a difficult brother-in-law.” She was painfully earnest as she stood there, setting him down in one breath, asking for hospitality in another. “If I had, I wouldn’t have come.”

“‘It’s her ladyship she wants,” the older man reminded.

Steve glanced down at the ring. He could not remember the exact conversation, but to his regret he did recall Bucky mentioning his Russian blood, the “uncouth” side of the family, and how amusing and endearingly eccentric he’d found their behavior. But this puffball of a female and her husk of a protector in their fusty cloaks, well, it was too much. What was he supposed to do with them? Send them on their way, of course. He was under no obligation to do otherwise.

“How did you come by the ring?” he asked, his voice expressionless.

“He gave it to me, for healing his knee. He said I could use the ring as part of my marriage portion.”

“He was my closest friend,” Steve said in a clipped voice. “I never heard him mention your name.”

“I never heard him mention yours, either,” she said indignantly. “And I was his cousin.”

“A fact that remains to be proved,” he said.

She frowned. “Excuse me?”

He frowned back at her. “The usual manner for a social introduction in these parts is to knock at the door.”

She lifted her brow. “And how does one, in these parts, reach the door when one is beset by attack dogs?”

His eyes glittered. “One usually does not pay a social call this late at night.”

“What has happened, Steve?” a woman inquired softly behind him.

He glanced over his shoulder in annoyance, slipped the ring into his pocket. Peter had brought reinforcements, all right, but not for Steve’s side. Wanda and Sam had arrived to investigate the disturbance; they obviously were informed their lives were not in any imminent danger. “ Go back inside the house, Wanda.” He said, and returned his attention to the strange pair who had invaded his privacy. “I am handling this matter.”

“And not very well, either,” he thought when he heard the young woman murmuring.

Wanda and Sam began to angle for a position around him, making a game of it. Irritated by their interference, Steve planted his legs apart to block their way. It did not deter them for a second. The two of them were incorrigible together, like a pair of children. Sometimes he thought he was the only person in the house who possessed any common sense whatsoever. 

“ Peter thought our visitors had something to do with James,” Wanda said, pausing to draw a breath. She was shivering in her thin silk gown. 

“They are not visitors,” Steve said succinctly. “They’re, well, I don’t quite know who they are, or what they want.” 

Sam eyed the old servant with amused curiosity before his interest turned to the woman. Steve could almost feel his friend’s male instincts go on the alert. What, he wondered, did Sam see beneath that unattractive woolen cloak? Perhaps he needed to take a closer look.

“They hardly look intimidating, Steve,” Sam said under his breath. 

Wanda stared at the young woman’s face as if making some sort of connection. “Who are you?” she asked, sounding half wistful, half afraid. And then, as an afterthought, she added politely, “Have we met?” 

Natasha bit her lip. “Are you Lady Barnes?” 

Wanda nodded, throwing a puzzled look at Steve, who merely lifted his broad shoulders in a shrug. “Yes, but who—” 

“I am Natasha Romanoff, James’s distant cousin, ma’am. His Aunt was a cousin to the Grand Duchess Maria, my mother.” 

“The Grand Duchess of Russia.” 

Wanda looked so utterly blank that Steve dared allow himself hope that this entire long-lost relations nonsense would die before it could go any further. 

“There,” he said, with such profound satisfaction that everyone glanced around to stare at him. “I thought that they were imposters, trying to feed off the grief of others.” 

Then Wanda’s face broke into a radiant smile—the first genuine smile Steve had seen her give since he came home from battle. “The Grand Duchess of Russia?” 

Natasha’s slight shoulders fell in a sigh of relief. “The same one. Your brother has the ring that James gave me.”

“And you are James’ Russian cousin, from Petersburg, he mentioned?” Wanda said in wonder. 

Sam regarded her in friendly delight. “She is family, Wanda. The Grand duchess daughter. Isn’t that a happy surprise?” 

Natasha glanced up, her gaze clashed with Steve’s as if she had sensed the suspicious turn of his thoughts. A duchess’s daughter, indeed. She had not made the arduous journey here to strengthen family ties, he thought as he fished the ring from his pocket and handed it to Wanda. The young woman wanted something. 

“ I wouldn’t have come without notifying you beforehand,” she explained awkwardly, “but circumstances forced us to leave our home with little preparation.” 

“What circumstances?” Steve asked, his predator’s instincts on the prowl. 

Both Wanda and Sam subjected him to looks that said he was an insensitive oaf for even asking such a question. 

“Circumstances can happen to anyone, Steve,” Wanda said in undertone, she clutched the ring tightly in her hand, “even to a young lady of a gold pedigree.” 

“She shot a pistol into the air to summon her butler,” Steve said in disbelief. “What sort of lady behaves in such a way?” 

“A resourceful one, I would think,” Sam said. 

“The lad did approach her with a musket, my lord,” Nicholas pointed out. “And it was my pistol. I’d asked her to hold it.” 

“I might not have fired the gun at all,” Natasha explained, “except that he startled me as I was gathering my things, and the pistol rather went off by itself.” 

“There,” Wanda said in triumph. She tucked her arm into the crook of Natasha’s elbow, giving a pleased little chuckle. “Come into the house, cousin, and don’t let my brother frighten you. He isn’t half bad when he’s at home.” 

Natasha stole a glance over her shoulder at him as Wanda led her toward the mansion. He could have sworn she gave him a fleeting smile, but that would be rather dangerous of her, challenging him, and before he could call attention to it, a huge dog came bounding out of the woods, took a flying leap, and knocked him into Sam. 

“Dear God,” he said, “where did that come from?” 

“‘It is the young lady’s,” Nicholas said, grabbing the panting animal by the scruff of the neck. 

“Well, put it in the kennel with the other dogs.” 

“The young lady will not like that, my lord.” 

Steve raised his brow. “That’s too bad, isn’t it? I do not want this beast frightening my household—” before he could finish, the deerhound sprang free, or, rather, Nicholas released it, pretending to look alarmed as the dog shot between the two young women. Wanda screamed, then started to laugh again. Natasha was laughing, too, as the hound jealously nosed Wanda from her side. Nicholas hurried after them, clearly not about to abdicate his role as guardian. 

Sam shook his head in amusement. “And so family matters have taken an interesting turn.” 

“If she is who she claims to be,” Steve said, shaking his head. 

“She’ll be good for Wanda, don’t you think? It was hard enough for her when she lost the baby, but with Bucky not here to help her accept—” 

Steve turned on him. “Do you not find it peculiar that she, a grand duchess’ daughter, appears out of the mist dressed like, well, I don’t know how to describe her?” 

“Reduced circumstances,Steve.” 

“Maybe, but what am I supposed to do with her? What am I to think?”


End file.
